


I Got Vision, and the Rest of the World Wears Bifocals

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To cope with Neal's death, Peter lets his gut overrule his grief. He's surprised at how well it ends up working out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got Vision, and the Rest of the World Wears Bifocals

**Author's Note:**

> title quoted from the great Butch Cassidy

The top edge is smooth and thin. He presses in as he glides across and he can feel the indentation the metal leaves on his finger. Around the point of the end and down to the bottom. Just as thin, but rough and jagged. He pushes into the ridges as he goes, remembering the length of each valley, each peak. 

_Sixteen credit cards, various names. Twelve hotel key cards, various hotels. One key._

Why only one key?

"Hon?" He startles, drops it back into the bottom of his pocket.

"What?"

The soft music comes back to him first, and the pleasant scent of some type of food he doesn't recognize. He doesn't remember the last few minutes when he looks up at her, sees that people are standing in different places than before, that some people have left, new people have arrived. June's home is beautiful and classic and huge, and even though Neal lived here for years, he would have been delighted with the party she's hosting in his honor today.

Jones and Diana, rocks, are still here. Mozzie still isn't. June's eyes bore into him from behind El. He's not sure if it's pity or contempt. He's never really been sure of anything with her.

"Hey Peter, you okay?" Clinton's voice feels detached and he answers him by instinct.

"Yeah, Jones. Thanks."

They think he's desolate, too wrapped up in anguish to engage. It's easier just to let them. This hasn't hit him as hard as it has all of them. He's able to replace the sorrow with what's kept him tied to Neal for years: the puzzle. As long as Peter can hang onto that, he hasn't really lost him, he won't have to deal with the pain. He feels sorry for the rest of them. 

The maid hands him a glass of water he really doesn't need and he finds that funny. She's let him into this house for four years and he doesn't remember her name.

He rotates the key again. He's done it for three days now, hidden in his pocket since he stood in that hospital hallway. He's been hoarding it, like it's some type of treasure. His treasure. There were several items in the packet; why is he fixated on this one? 

"Peter?"

"I'm just... "

Treasure.

_"Maybe these containers aren't a bad place to stash half a billion dollars in cash."_

"Hon, let's sit down."

He yanks his arm back from her outstretched hand, "No." 

El startles and he takes a deep breath, wills himself to calm down. "I'm sorry, Hon. I need some air."

El sets her coffee down and picks up her purse, "Okay, let's just tell June- "

"No, I... would you mind if I went alone?"

El tilts her head, studies him and he can see the grief in her eyes. She's been supporting him as he's walked through the last couple of days in a haze; but she loved him, too. Everyone here did.

"I'm sorry, El."

"It's alright. I'll meet you back home?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't speak to anyone as he leaves; El will smooth it over, even though she doesn't understand. _"I'm so sorry but Peter... well, he's having a rough time with this."_

He lets the adrenaline wash over him as he drives, soaking it in after the crushing weight he's held off the past few days. He tries not to speed. Fails; but he doesn't run past any squad cars. He'd have never broken these rules with Neal in the car. Who'd been keeping whom in line? 

The key back in his hand is like a reunion after gripping the steering wheel so long and he almost doesn't try the lock. It's not till a flock of pigeons scatter that he realizes he's just been rotating it again. He'll take anything at this point, illegal or not, just to have a connection to Neal again. 

He thought the door would be difficult to open, rusty maybe. But the latch is smooth as butter when he turns it. He takes a deep breath before he pulls it open, promising himself that whatever's in this storage unit, he won't report it. Neal had come so far before Keller took him from them. If Peter needs to return stolen art, antiquities, jewels... fine; but it won't be connected to Neal's name.

 

* * * * *

 

So he'd been up to something. Not surprising. But what?

Give me a clue, Neal.

_You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good at._

Every inch of this abandoned building is covered in dust and it stirs up with each step he takes, inducing a cough. The agent in him doesn't want to disturb it while he's looking, but it really doesn't matter anymore, does it?

There'd been only one item in that whole damned storage unit. But the bullet hole in that mannequin has him on this mission. So far it's a bust. 

He's standing on Neal's exact location when he heard the gunshot three days ago. He keeps walking over it from different angles, trying to see something. Unless... maybe Neal wasn't wearing the anklet at the time. But there weren't any other shots and he doubts even Neal worried about taking off a GPS when he was bleeding out. Besides, Neal wouldn't have put it on if he didn't want to be found.

He concentrates on the faded letters on the wall, the n and i almost completely gone and the S... 

United States Postal Service. Why didn't he think of that earlier? The pneumatic tubes. 

He'd seen the door to the stairwell when he busted in here. He takes the steps two at a time, shocked that there's light, that there's electricity down here. That doesn't make sense. He finds the spot again, one floor down, in this cold brick basement. Nothing. Not even dust. He wanders around the basement, sees dust everywhere else but when he comes back to the area blinking on his phone, there's none. The floor is pristine. As though it had been recently scrubbed. 

 

* * * * *

 

"Peter, I thought you'd take a few days off."

If all these years with Neal have taught him anything, it's how to redirect with the truth. "I need to work, Diana."

She'd seen his odd exit at the wake, hadn't called him on it. He needs to be careful. He's not an academy award winner but he knows how to leave enough out to get by.

"I'll be in my office."

He's careful when he searches airlines, names. Makes it look like it's part of a hackneyed mortgage fraud when he finds footage of a woman paying for tickets. He knows her. He can't place her, but he knows her. It takes him hours, and several interruptions on Diana's part with fresh coffee, but he finds what he's looking for.

 

* * * * *

 

He'd seen something in her eyes, in the way she held herself the day before. She's elegant and dangerous. She'd always been good about using emotion to steer people. 

"Hello Peter. How are you doing?"

"Alright. May I come in?"

"Of course."

She precedes him into the dining room, the one he'd just stood in yesterday, trying to hold it together. His nerves are singing with questions. He knows the conclusions he's jumping to are going to wreck him in the end, but he waits till she sends the maid for tea. The maid's name is Bridget. 

"Tell me."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

He looks around, searching for any reason he shouldn't speak out loud. But, knowing who frequents here, this house is probably swept for bugs weekly. 

"Your nephew took a flight to Paris two days ago." The only sign is a slight twitch in her cheek.

"Yes, a job interview."

"You sent Bridget to buy the tickets."

"I've been having trouble with my arthritis. It's easier to send the help."

"Layovers in Quebec and Stockholm and Madrid?"

"He wanted to see the world on his way." 

"You don't have a nephew, June."

She sighs, studies him for some time. Not a nephew; but Mama Lion has had a son the last four years.

"You know why it had to be this way?"

He feels a punch to his gut at the question, assumes it's a jab at his job. "He didn't trust me."

"Oh no, Dear. No. You're not the one he didn't trust."

Mozzie's words come back to him, the dangers of the last sting. He'd mumbled to himself in the hallway while they'd waited for the coroner. _"Should have been watching Keller, not the Panthers."_ Peter hadn't paid much attention. His mind was anywhere but.

"Woodford."

She nods, sets down her tea and steps into another room, and then another. He waits at the table, pretending he likes tea. The air feels different here than it did yesterday. He tries to control his breathing. 

It's four minutes and thirteen seconds before she's seated across from him again, dialing numbers on a burner phone. She waits a bit, hangs up, and dials again. She repeats this, twice. Then dials once more. Her eyes light up but all she says is, "Plan D."

She listens, then nods. She hands the phone to Peter. It feels heavy in his hand. He takes a deep breath, then forges ahead...

"Why am I not Plan A?"

"Four and oh; that was quick."

Peter can't stop the sharp intake of air at the voice on the other end. His heart beats wildly in his chest and he can feel moisture sting his eyes. He starts a stuttering breath, "N- "

"No names."

"Okay."

It's silent then, and he realizes that it's up to him, "You don't have to do this." 

"You have no idea." Neal's voice sounds hoarse, almost as shaky as Peter's, and he wonders what this does to Neal. Everyone here has each other to lean on. 

"They're behind bars." 

"The space between those bars is pretty wide." 

"I can protect you." 

"Me? Is that what you think this is about?" 

"Then what?" 

"You, Butch. And Etta. And the person standing next to you." And everyone else Neal loves.

"We'll get the conviction." 

"They can afford the best. This is the only way." 

Peter gives him that. "Maybe. For now." 

Neal clears his throat; raw voice gone, all business now. "You can't let Haversham in on the loop."

Peter agrees. Moz is a lousy actor. "I gathered that. It'll be harder later, though." 

" I know." 

A silence stretches between them. 

"Be careful. And- "

"I don't plan on doing anything stupid. I... want to come home, eventually."

Home.

"Good. Keep in touch, Sundance."

He sets the key on June's table as he hears Neal huff a small laugh through the phone. 

"See ya in Australia, Butch."


End file.
